


Incantation

by rei_c



Series: Pan of the Preserve [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Claiming Bites, Demigod Stiles Stilinski, Full Shift Werewolves, Gen, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, POV Stiles, Plans For The Future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-20 02:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15523641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: Stiles is sixteen. Aunt 'Rina thinks his ripening is just around the corner, the tree thinks that Hales are coming back to Beacon Hills, and Stiles -- Stiles just wants to play with 'gators and let Camille mess with his hair.





	Incantation

Stiles hums in sleepy pleasure as Camille drags fingers through Stiles' hair. They've been sitting out here on the edge of the swamp for five lazy hours of swimming and playing and hide-and-seek, but the heat's finally gotten to Stiles and resting is nice. Resting with his head in Camille's lap is even nicer. Resting with his head in Camille's lap while Camille plays with his hair is the _most_ nicest.

The dragonflies that've been following the scent of Stiles' magnolia blooms around the woods hover over Stiles' wrists and hands; the dappled sunlight coming in through the cypress and oak lights up their wings in brilliant kaleidoscope and half-blinds Stiles when he looks at them. He turns his gaze back to the water, watches 'gators on the far side laze in the sun. He feels like he could maybe be an alligator. They have big teeth, which Stiles will have, one day, and they like the bayou and the sun and they eat fast, too, but they don't move a lot and they don't roam around in packs. If it's a choice of 'gator-shift or pack, Stiles chooses pack every time. He'd choose his pack over pretty much everything except maybe his family. 

...Maybe.

"Please tell me you ain't thinkin' 'bout chasin' the 'gators again," Camille says. "Last time you did that, I ended up with half a tooth stuck in my nose." 

Stiles laughs, wriggles around so he can look up at Camille, poke Camille's nose. "Looks fine to me," Stiles says. "But I'm not. Thinking about going after the 'gators again, I mean. I'm pretty sure Aunt 'Rina would kill me if she found out and I know you, Cam, you'd tattle on me in an instant because you go all weird when I'm playing with them even though they don't look me as prey because, hello, I'm _not_." 

Camille rolls his eyes, sets one hand on Stiles' belly and lets his claws dip out, scrape across the skin. The claws leave white lines in their wake, small ones that shine out against Stiles' tan and then fade away quickly, no force behind them to dig deeper, to last longer. It tickles. 

"No snakes, either," Camille adds on. 

Stiles groans, complains about Camille spoiling all of his fun, but quickly subsides. It's too hot to complain and, besides, he's only got a few more weeks before he has to go home. It's not worth grumbling when he could be spending precious moments doing other things -- like enjoying the way it feels to have Camille groom him, nails scritching Stiles' scalp, fingers picking out specks of mud and small squirming ants from Stiles' hair. 

"I like it longer," Camille murmurs. "You gonna buzz it again when you go home?"

"Thinking about it," Stiles says. "Probably. It's easier to take care of; did you know they make soap that's, like, meant to wash body _and_ hair? Not that I use that. I don't trust it. Skin's totally different from hair. I mean, for one thing, hair's _dead_. But they make that stuff. I wonder if it's more for people who're bald? I guess having no hair is kind of like having buzzed hair, depending on how long you let it grow before you clip it off again. Huh. Hair's weird when you think about it, isn't it. Do you think hair's weird? Do you think fur's like hair? Oh, hey," Stiles says, and he shifts again, looks at Camille with wide, curious eyes. "Do you use different shampoo for your hair than for your fur? Do you shampoo your fur? Cam, how do you clean your fur and why have I never asked you this before, it seems like something I should've thought about before now." 

"Cleanin' carries over," Camille says. He's smiling, a little, the way he does when it's just him and Stiles. Stiles likes it, likes having his own smile. "And if we had to buy shampoo for the whole pack to wash when they're in wolf-skin, that would get expensive." 

Stiles thinks about that, says, "Tag would make it for you. Maybe. But you're right, you'd need a lot. And I bet it'd be hard to soap up without opposable thumbs." He pauses, shrugs. "I'd help. I mean, I like it when you play with my hair, you'd probably like it, too. Wait, oh no, Cam," he says, scrambling upwards, "I haven't been playing with your hair! Should I have been? Why didn't you tell me? If I like it then you must like it, right? Are other people doing it? Should I let other people --" 

Camille growls and wraps his hand around the back of Stiles' neck. Stiles goes loose and boneless, whines a little, takes maybe a second too long to blink, and before he knows it, he's back lying down, head in Camille's lap, Camille's fingers running through his hair and over his neck. 

"Oh," Stiles says, a minute later. "Huh. Is that -- huh." 

"Don't let anyone else touch your hair," Camille tells him. Camille's eyes are still glowing gold, just the tiniest bit, and his voice rumbles, echoes over the swamp. 

Stiles grins, squirms around again so he can look up at Camille. Camille sighs but lets Stiles rearrange himself, then looks down to meet Stiles' eyes. "No one else?" Stiles asks, grinning up at his wolf. "Just you?" 

"Just me," Camille says. His eyes flash, hands holding Stiles just that little bit tighter, little bit closer, Camille hunched over slightly to hide the sight of Stiles' body from anyone who might be looking. 

Something in that, in the possessive way Camille touches him, wants to keep Stiles to himself, makes the Pan inside of Stiles shriek with glee. He's still too young to know what it means -- no, that's not true, he knows what it means, knows what it means that Camille snarls when anyone other than the pack or Stiles' family touches him, but there's a difference between knowing and _knowing_. Pans don't mature the way humans do; Stiles will be considered a baby until he ripens. 

"Okay," Stiles says, "just you." It's an easy promise to make. Camille is his and Stiles gets the feeling that when he grows up, he'll be willing to do just about anything to keep Camille happy. He already feels like that, sometimes, even though he doesn't have the power to back it up. Besides, apart from Dad and Scott and Cousin Jessica, no one at home really gives him a second look. 

Camille looks down at him, smiles, and Stiles reaches up, runs his fingers through Camille's beard and tugs at the hair a little. The softness dips back between them, carrying with it the drone of mosquitos and insects from inside the trees, the quiet lapping of the swamp at their feet, the noise echoing from alligators repositioning themselves as the sun hides behind a cloud. Stiles likes these moments best, he thinks: him and Camille pressed together all tight, scents mingling, the exhaustion of physical activity and thick humidity tugging at his bones. He'd stay like this forever if he could. There's Beacon Hills to think about, though, and his dad, and the way the territory clings and the nemeton whispers and his _bakkheia_ lurks, uneasy, beneath his skin, Stiles' vow pulling on him with more and more force the closer his ripening comes. 

" _Bébé_ ," Camille finally says. "If you ain't thinkin' 'bout chasin' the 'gators, or trackin' snakes, or makin' shampoo, what've you been considerin'? You been quieter than normal ever since you got here. Even Tee-Tee noticed and you know that girl ain't got a spare thought in her head since the bond-rite."

"I wanna visit Taggart," Stiles says. Camille's eyes go dark, hooded, as his whole body stills. "I think I have to. I think it might be time, this year. The tree agrees with me."

Camille lets out a breath, tears his eyes from Stiles', looks out over the water. Stiles looks up at Camille, admires the line of his wolf's jaw, the way Camille's reddish hair sparks and gleams in the sunlight coming in through the trees and the kudzu. He traces his fingers along Camille's cheekbones, across the bridge of his nose, fans them out over the laugh lines stealing out from the corners of Camille's eyes. 

"You do?" Camille asks. "I was hoping you'd ripen before -- was hoping they'd stay away a few more years." Camille shakes his head, looks back down at Stiles. "You told Ren?" he asks. 

"No," Stiles says. "Wanted to tell you first. And I want you to come to Tag's with me. I want you to know -- everything. How it works, what it does, that it'll come off, how long it'll last. I want us both to know it won't affect anything that really matters. Jess'll have -- Tag called it 'veto power' but it's more like the ability to pause it, so I'll still be able to talk to her about what's happening, and she can pause it when I'm at hers so I can call you and we can talk like normal, but --." Stiles' eyes and fingers settle on the bite Stiles gave Camille, years ago now, and the scar that's settled deep in Camille's skin, the imprint of Stiles' teeth, the depth of his promise mirrored in canine and incisor and molar. "But if I'm gonna hold with my vow, and with the way I attract pack, I need the spell."

Camille runs his fingers over Stiles' neck even as he tilts his head, frowns. "You decided, then? Ain't gonna change your mind?"

"Aunt 'Rina says it's a sign that my ripening is close," Stiles says. "A year away, she thinks. The tree thinks it'll be a little longer, maybe next fall, but we've talked about the spell so it's pushing me to decide things. Not that I need a lot of pushing; I know who I want on my first hunt. I just _also_ know that I won't be able to keep whoever that is interested enough without the spell and I don't trust my _bakkheia_ to wait for me to come out of the tree, either."

"Yeah," Camille says, letting out a breath. "Raised by foxes and cunning enough to suit them but your weakness is pack and territory." He sits, silently, for long enough that Stiles turns back onto his side, fixes his eyes on the swamp and listens to the trees talk and the grass sing and the moss whisper. Finally, eventually, Camille says, "I'll talk to Ren tonight. You can talk to Reine. I'll -- I'll call Tag."

Stiles exhales and rubs his face against Camille's thigh. "Thank you," he whispers.


End file.
